Digging a Hole
I haven't reached the bottom yet, or found
that succulent sassafras taproot that makes
the curious tea I'm thinking
of. The hole is sinking
though—my shovel occasionally breaks
a strange dark root with a tearing sound
and I look to see what's there. It's never the one.
The dirt flies out as I do my work,
or , whichever it may
be. An errant ray
of sun touches the earth, once dark.
I keep working, wondering when I'll be done.
The day moves on around me, my foolish task
goes on, deeper into soil
now laced with stone. I bring
the mattock down to sing
through sweaty air—I curse the toil
but do not stop. There are questions I don't ask.
I stand inside the hole as dark comes on,
as if the moon might help me find
something I have missed.
A languid haze of mist
rises from my breath—the moon is blind—
I fall into the dirt and dream of Avalon.